


Smash

by sonshineandshowers



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Friendship, Gen, Hoarding, Hurt/Comfort, Hysterical Strength, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:27:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23109232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: A lens into the friendship between JT and Malcolm, and the scene JT pulls Malcolm out of.For Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt Hysterical Strength.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright & JT Tarmel
Comments: 12
Kudos: 74
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	Smash

A group text comes from Tally, inviting Malcolm for dinner, JT also on receipt. “I’ve got ya covered,” JT advises over coffee.

And he’s right. Minestrone soup goes on their plates, and a pile of pigs in a blanket is available as a side for Tally and JT to work through. They chat their way along, JT providing the backing commentary into cases _let’s not go there_ , relationships _none_ , and traces of humor over mishaps _plenty_. Malcolm is surprised when his food is gone.

“You boys have fun.” Tally squeezes JT’s hand. “I’ll clean up.”

They bring their drinks to the living room and sit at opposite ends of the couch. “Ever play Smash Brothers?” JT asks, turning on the TV and the Switch.

"You forget I went to boarding school." Malcolm taps his finger against his glass.

"And?"

"Lots of time for bullshitting." He finishes his drink and the glass goes onto the coffee table.

"I play a mean Peach.” JT hands Malcolm one of the controllers and starts a game. 

Malcolm looks at the controller, the TV, amused by the new information.

“So pick a character,” JT indicates to get on with the process.

Malcolm selects Ryu, a martial artist in a gi.

“You’re gonna pick one of the least interesting characters?” JT complains when there’s a colorful explosion of others to choose.

Malcolm shrugs, not changing his pick.

“Now you’re forcing a _Street Fighter_ matchup.” JT swaps his character to Ken, who has a matching gi.

Red and blue fireballs and kicks litter the screen. They drop off ledges and pop back up, fly a bit in the air and return to the ground, kicking and punching all the way. Quick chatter in the room mimics the flurry of attacks, taunting each other over who will win.

JT attempts a focus attack, and Malcolm focus attacks back, shooting JT offscreen and into space for several seconds. “What was that?” he exclaims, waiting longer than normal to return to ground.

Malcolm shrugs and continues the pounding as soon as he’s back in sight.

JT focus attacks again, and Malcolm repeats the move, flinging JT out of the galaxy. “You know what you’re doing,” JT accuses, looking at him in shock. He wasn’t getting launched by accident. “Can you show me how?”

Their fight devolves into training how to rocket an opponent into space, choosing to be on the same team instead of tearing into each other.

* * *

It’s their second call in a week to a residence overgrown with stacks of magazines, plastic containers, and refuse. The plastic interlocking shelves teeter under the weight of their overflowing contents, towering skyscrapers over the narrow walk. Single file, they make it to the deceased in the kitchen.

Sedimentary dishes and flatware, mail piled everywhere, months decaying food. Provisions crawling out of the closets, wrapping around to the cabinets, soaking in fumes. Drawing into their noses, they flail for fresh air and roses, but the dank stench wins.

The woman lies in a stained sweatsuit, slashed at the throat just like the last victim. She’s propped up on one side by next year’s dinner and the other by last year’s catalogs. Visited by a killer targeting those struggling with self-imposed confinement, supposedly cleaning the world.

They're cramped in the space themselves, talking through each other's heads as they work. Thankfully, none of them are claustrophobic, and they manage to stay calm long enough to finish up and leave.

They bring the victim out the kitchen window because they can’t safely get back to the door with the stretcher. Gil looks over the team, making sure everyone is accounted for. “Let’s get out of here,” he directs Dani to start the train back to the door.

They each have to brush by the leaning tower to make their way to the other side. Malcolm misjudges a step and thwacks the plastic shelving with his arm, bringing it toppling down on him. He gets smashed into the floor and covered in debris.

From opposite sides, JT nearer the door and Gil nearer the kitchen, they see huge plastic containers holding who knows what, waves of magazines, every unwanted tchotchke imaginable, but no Malcolm. “Bright?” Gil hollers, scrambling to move some of the periodicals.

They hear nothing. As soon as Gil puts the magazines to the side, they’re falling onto the pile again. Gil tries to move one of the containers, but it’s too heavy.

“Gil? I’m gonna lift this, and you’re gonna pull him out,” JT explains, his hands going to the shelf, forcing contents back onto it.

Gil’s doubtful, but he listens. With herculean strength, JT pushes up the bursting tower that threatens to topple back down, and magazines slide in to fill the void. Gil grabs Malcolm by the shoulders and extracts him from the pile’s grasp, pulling him toward the kitchen. As soon as Malcolm’s clear, JT registers the few hundred pounds and the tower drops again, taking more of the room with it.

“Dani, go around to the kitchen - we’re gonna need to help get him out the window,” JT instructs, following behind her.

Gil feels breathing and a pulse, but Malcolm’s out. Aside from the bump on his head, he can’t tell where else he may be injured.

“Gil, how is he?” JT calls from outside, sticking his head in the window.

“Out. I don’t want to move him any more without the medic. No telling what might be broken.”

“They’ll be here any minute,” Dani relays.

“Fuckin’ disaster,” JT mutters under his breath.

Malcolm stirs, his hands moving. “Stay still, Bright,” Gil guides, his hand at Malcolm’s jaw.

Malcolm’s face twists in a grimace and his hands fold into his ribs. “Bus is almost here,” Gil shares. “I need you to stay put.”

For once, he listens. Gil doesn’t know whether this worries him more or less.

Gil and JT help the medic through the window, a backboard in tow. After getting Malcolm onto it, it takes all four of them to get him out the window, and the medic and Gil follow.

* * *

“Ya know, you’re supposed to save the fancy moves for the game,” JT teases, entering Malcolm’s hospital room.

“Hey, JT,” Malcolm responds, giving him a small smile.

“How ya feelin’?” JT asks from beside the bed.

“Fine. You smell,” Malcolm accuses.

“You do too,” JT adds. The home’s scent is trapped in their pores, on their clothes, and neither of them have had a chance to shower. “What’s the damage?” He gestures down the bed.

“Concussion, broken ribs. There’s some swelling on my back they want to keep an eye on.”

“So a typical trip to the hospital for you.”

“Yeah.” Malcolm smiles again. “Gil said you pulled me out.”

“No, he did. I just did the heavy lifting.” His arms carry soreness now.

“Regardless - thank you,” Malcolm shares.

“Of course.”

“Should I call you the Hulk now?” He grins, full of mischief.

“No.”

“Jhalil?”

“Bright,” JT cautions.

“Alright.” His hands fidget, stressed in the environment. “I want to go home.”

“I can see if they have Smash Brothers in the kiddy wing,” JT offers.

“Yes!” Bright’s face light’s up at the unexpected gift.

“I’m not gonna go easy on you,” JT warns.

“You better not - you’ll lose,” Malcolm taunts.

“We’ll see.”

* * *

_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> hellbent_panda asked for the hysterical strength square, and then jokingly said he wanted mal hurtling someone into space. he reinforced jk, jk, i wrote it anyway. :P


End file.
